You make me ill to my core. It's the way you curl yourself beneith my skin and suck the love and passion from my bloodstream like a sun starved flower. You sit benith the open sky in your flowerpot, adorned with my words. I bathe you in the things you need, but yet you still rob my bones. You betray my trust when I need you most.
Then you dissapear, like some godforsaken ghost into an early morning fog and all you leave behind is dew-drops on the lashes that protect my eyes.
When you kiss, you consume. You burn like a forest fire, searing and violent, across the tips of my fingers and the curve of my spine. You cauterize my eyes, disect me with your words untill theres nothing left but the peices. I am blind, senseless, locked in the closet you've forced under your bed. You let me out at night when you go to dance at BaY with others who've chosen shed their fur in exchange for paper. In the hollow moonlight, projected through the cheep plastic blinds I cry. I don't know what else to do.
You leave me hopeless, with a fragile twisted scene of myself and the way things should be. Growing up with a far too distant- and far too fucked up- excuse for a parent, I never thought real love would look like this.